


The Wind's of Winter

by ElisaMalfoy



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, I'm Bad At Summaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 00:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisaMalfoy/pseuds/ElisaMalfoy
Summary: The Dragonborn has lost most of her memory as a consequence of Hermaeus Mora's influence after her victory in Sovngarde. She has spent the last two years recovering physically and mentally in the seclusion and tranquility of High Hrothgar, however as her recovery reaches an end and she returns home to the life she had forgotten, she deals with the aftermath of her absence while struggling to save her marriage with a man who harbors a deep resentment towards her.





	

Two years ago, Skyrim witnessed something unlike anything it had ever seen. The thick fogs surrounding the summit of the throat of the world had cleared and the dragons that plagued the land flocked there, circling the mountain, shouting, in what sounded like grief stricken cries, as if they were communicating amongst each other, to mourn their fallen brother; Alduin. The spectacle drew the attention of nearly every inhabitant of Whiterun hold who watched in both fear and amazement…However, one shout stood out from the rest, it was bold and demanding, proving their very equal, yet still maintained a vaguely human tone. Had it belonged to their revered Dragonborn? Sadly, two years ago, to the date, was the last time the raven-haired woman had been seen again. 

Her husband Vilkas, who became Harbinger in her place scoured the realm for her in every nook and cranny going as far as Solstheim and Highrock in his search, gone for months at a time and only returning to Jorvaskr during the bitter winter months. With no real oversight or leadership, the legendary band of warriors bound by honor and unity began to crumble from within. They became naught more than sell swords, caring of little else other than coin. 

4E204, 21st of Evening Star.

In the peaceful, empty hallway of High Hrothgar sat a woman, the sole being in the monastery’s main room in front of an altar, meditating. A thin rug was the only barrier between her legs and the stone-cold floor as she sat with impeccable posture. Her back was straight, her head tilted slightly downward and her delicate hands rested on her thighs. The harsh winter wind howled outdoors and swept inside through the cracks blowing out many of the torches around except for the one in front of her which burned fiercely. Black browns furrowed in concentration as she began to envision a familiar man. The same one that had haunted her dreams for many months now, as if he was following her. He didn’t feel malevolent, but very familiar and comforting. Every time she tried to come closer to him, he would vanish and she would awaken. Now, however, she was as close to him as she had ever been.

A whimper escaped her parted lips as she tried to speak to him, telling him not to go as she drew closer to him. She wanted to know him, to remember who he once was again. His silhouette was still and suddenly she was face to face with him as he looked down at her. Dark haired. Steel grey eyes. He lifted a strong hand to her face as she parted her lips to speak with him, to ask him who he was and why he always followed her and fled, but before she could make out the words, her blue eyes shot open. She could now hear the sounds around her, the crackling of the burning firewood and the howling blizzard outside.

“Dovahkin…” She heard a deep voice call out as she turned her head slightly and saw a monk approaching her in her peripherals, his boots tapping quietly against the stone floor. He lowered his hand down as he stood next to her, offering to help her stand. The woman sighed and accepted it courteously, wincing as she stood up off her sore legs. She must have been meditating for hours, much longer than she had planned.

“I must have lost track of time.” She whispered quietly, wrapping her fur cloak tighter around her small frame against the cold. Her Breton blood, unfortunately, did not grant her as much resistance to the cold, Dragonborn or not. The monk nodded sympathetically as they walked together.

“Did you succeed in recovering any memories?” He inquired. The young woman watched her feet carrying her out of the main room and briefly envisioned the young man’s face again.

“Not a memory, but, the man again…this time, I saw him up closer and longer before waking up.” The greybeard remained silent.

“Arngeir…why won’t you help me recover my memories? This man…I know he was in some way important to me. Please… I need to know.” Arngeir looked at her small hand on his arm, stopping him from walking any further.

“Dovakiin, us Greybeards are here to aid you in any way we can. My priority was to help you recover from the trauma Hermaeus Mora caused you and to purge the filth of his influence from your mind. I have not revealed anything from your personal life because I hoped that you would recover those memories on your own, and it seems as though I was correct.”

The Breton girl sighed, she knew she had spent two years in High Hrothgar, and much of that time had been a blur. The greybeards found her, collapsed in front of their monastery, her ebony armor bludgeoned and dented. She was young, but she was experienced in the ways of war and had walked where few others had been before. The monks had nursed her back to health while she was in a comatose state, and soon after she awoke, they discovered that the extent of damage she had acquired exceeded that of just physical. It had taken more than a year of deep mediation and peace to heal her mind, body and soul.

Arngeir turned towards her, observing her blank stare, the kind she adopted when in deep thought. She did a lot of that lately and he wondered if she was ready to return to her people once more or if it would be too much for the girl. Despite her being the mighty Dragonborn, the herald of Akatosh, it was difficult to see past her young petite frame.

“I did not know much of your personal life Dovakiin, but I know enough to guide you in the proper direction, that is, if you feel you are ready to return home.” He finally spoke, breaking the silence and snapping her out of her thoughts. She looked at him skeptically, a flash of happiness, anxiety and uncertainty crossed her features.

‘Home’ She pondered. She knew very well what the word meant. It was a place of belonging, warmness, and family, but she could not correlate those feelings with anyplace else except the monastery. She did not know how to respond to the Greybeard, she was aware the day to return home would come, but she didn’t anticipate the feelings of uncertainty that came with the choice. Would she be able to return home after so long without consequence? The monk observed her troubled expression and placed his arm around her shoulders to guide her towards the library of High Hrothgar, where they could sit a while in her favorite place to discuss her memories.

The elder slowly swung the wooden door open and gestured for her to proceed before stepping in behind her. It had been years, perhaps even decades since him or any of the other monks used the library. There hadn’t been a book there that they hadn’t already read, but luckily, it served the girl to entertain herself when she wasn’t mediating or practicing her shouts.

“YOL” he shouted, lighting every torch as his skillful shout echoed throughout the chamber. The Breton girl took a seat at one of the large wooden tables and the monk took a seat just across from her.

“I realize we cannot shield you forever and now that you are regaining some of your memories, perhaps it is time to reveal some others to you about the life you’ll need to return to someday. You endured many hardships and tribulations in the year it took you to defeat the World Eater, and your amnesia at least allowed you two years of relative peace that you would not have known otherwise.” She thoughtfully nodded as he spoke.

“Your name, as you remembered a few months ago, is Circe Fairfax. You are from High Rock where you left to travel to Skyrim to join the College of Winterhold. You have no surviving blood relatives left, but you do have a family you have come to know here in Skyrim. After you were caught crossing the border and framed as a rebel Stormcloak, your journey to Winterhold was interrupted and you joined a band of warriors, the Companions. They became your second family and I know you treasured them immensely…” Arngeir paused to observe Circe’s face, making sure she was not too overwhelmed before he continued.

“The man in your dreams. You have had visions and dreams of him ever since we found you collapsed outside of High Hrothgar. I believe you were afraid of forgetting his memory so your subconscious retained the image of this man. You have described him as a dark-haired man, grey eyes, a scar across his cheek…. yes…Circe…this man, he is your husband…”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first shot at a fanfic and I am excited about it! I have spent so many years as just a lurker but I thought I should give it a shot! Please Read and Review! Constructive criticism is welcomed and encouraged!


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